I woke up from a coma to a country that had changed beyond recognition . . .
Marks and Spencer were selling microwavable coddle and a Euro discount store was about to open in the Powerscourt Townhouse Centre. God, I was only unconscious for ten days.
Meanwhile, the Gords wanted to talk to me. They were obviously pretty interested in finding out who shot me. The problem was that the entire incident was a basic blank.
I made a promise, there and then in St Vincent's Private Hospital, that I wasn't going to waste another minute of my life. There were thousands of beautiful women out there who had never known the pleasure of my company - and that was going to change, the minute my wounds healed and I was off my crutches.
But the path to hot love seldom runs smoothly. I had problems to deal with. A daughter who hated my basic guts. A son who was growing up way too fast. A soon-to-be-ex-wife who was resorting to increasingly desperate measures to stop the bank from repossessing the house.
Oh, and the Gords were having one or two problems believing my story . . .